The Man's Shop gives your wardrobe room to vroom.

by ELIZABETH DYE
243-2122 ext. 335

It is linked to mainland Portland by a bridge putatively intended as the practice run for Joseph Strauss' Golden Gate (OK, that's a myth, but so are most good stories). The City of Portland recently designated it Portland's "last sidewalk-friendly community" (or so a local businessman told me). The rumors have got to add up to something, and this is it: St. Johns is the shopping destination of tomorrow, today.

"Shopping, shopping, shopping," you snivel. "The last thing I need in the lean days of January is another place to squander my hard-earned ducats." Then, dear amis, get a cup of coffee at Raindog, or a tall one at the Wishing Well, and simply breathe the (100 percent free) atmosphere of small-town optimism.

I stopped in to chat with Portland Eyeworks proprietor and St. Johns resident Michael Kaufman, whose optical emporium has warmed a storefront on main drag Lombard Street for all of 11 weeks. Handsome frames are displayed in an interior painted in arresting '50s kitchen green and oleomargarine yellow (hurry on over--he's having second thoughts on the paint job). Kaufman's a deep believer in the future of the neighborhood. "In the next year, you're going to see a lot of changes on this street," he promised, forecasting fresh awnings and rebrushed store facades.

But let's not deny it, part of the St. Johns appeal is that the district has so far evaded the nasty shocks aggressive redevelopment and too much city money can cause--you know, whitewashing, resident and small-business displacement. The dicey cocktail lounges and discount stores tread bravely on, Starbucks notwithstanding. Along Lombard, once called North Jersey Street, stand some local apparel merchants who put down roots long before Giorgio Armani was in diapers. In fashion years, that's some serious history.

The Man's Shop launched its spacecraft of a sign in 1940. Manned by brothers Jerry and Bob Leveton, the Man's Shop is one of those gentleman's furnishings enclaves that feel almost sacred--hushed and churchlike, a masculine pipe-tobacco-and-tweed kind of joint. The old-school atmosphere and attentive service (I got the "may I help you" the moment I hit the threshold) would make this a great place to buy your first suit. Bewildered by the whole neck-size/shoulder-width ratio thingy? Want to keep costs down but still look sharp? Bet you a spending spree at the Bargain Mart the Levetons know the business better than most of us know anything. Not in the market? Score an "Enjoy St. Johns" T-shirt (red or blue, in Coca-Cola script) or an NFL puffy coat ($50) for casual moments.

A neighboring St. Johns veteran is Jower's Work Boots and Clothes, which hung out its first shingle in the 19th century. Wan Jower was a Chinese immigrant to Oregon who established the first store, Jower & Chin ("Manufacturer of Ladies' Underwear and Gents' Shirts") at No. 5 Third Street in 1890. The St. Johns store opened its doors in 1906, and it's still kicking. Enjoy the admonitory signage posted on every flat surface (my favorite: "DEFECTIVE CLOTHING MUST BE WASHED BEFORE RETURNING"). Be puzzled by the price lists, which scale according to size. Then help yourself to a selection of Carhartt and Ben Davis trousers, Big Bill blue jeans, Five Brother flannel button-downs and Spiewak arctic coats. (Spiewak is a suddenly hip manufacturer of disaster-proof industrial clothing, including cop and postal carrier uniforms. Spiewak won't sell those to you. I asked.) Among the sturdy standards at Jower's you'll even discover some out-of-print oddities, like a quilted Dacron waterproof jacket by Golden Fleece (last of its kind, lined in red, $76). And did I mention all the zip hoods, padded vests, boots, gloves, coveralls and yellow slickers?

A day in St. Johns would fail to satisfy without a cruise through the Salvation Army Thrift Store. It's fruitless to vouch for the selection at any thrift store, but on the day I visited, treasures surfaced without the now-the-gloves-come-off digging, often a grim necessity at picked-over in-town counterparts. A 10-minute sweep netted a late-'60s suede jacket ($14), magenta fake-fur Sears bathrobe ($3), a red wool collared shirt handmade by one "Leola Duyk" ($6, worth it for the nametag alone), and, for fetish night, a genuine standard-issue Clinique lab coat ($4).

Go for the work boots. Go for the weird smells. Go because you've never been there before, because you have, because it's raining and you've seen every movie in town except Cast Away. Go just to behold the shift and stretch of a living neighborhood. Cross that bridge to the 21st century.